


Sentiment

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Atlético Madrid, Champions League, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what people might think, it's not sentiment that makes Diego Simeone bring Fernando Torres home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, it takes a village for me to write a story. So, let's do this: This work has a fanmix by the great caravans lost. They went above and beyond the call of duty, especially when I needed a key song to be in there, and yes, this mix is [here](http://8tracks.com/caravanslost/sentiment) is _errthang_. On top of that, Caravanslost even beta'd my fic, I got an awesome artist/beta/all rounder/MVP. Cheers to her, and envy me! :D Thanks to futbul mini bang for an orderly fest with great modding. Thanks to moon-for-start for giving me the heads up for this contest (because I've been wanting to write this story for a while, and this was a great opportunity). A shoutout to ourseparatedcities on tumblr for being like, "Do you, mate" and not running down the cyber road screaming when I said, 'Diego Simeone' (Real Madrid fan, you understand). All mistakes are mine.
> 
> [Sentiment](http://8tracks.com/caravanslost/sentiment) from [caravanslost](http://8tracks.com/caravanslost) on [8tracks Radio](http://8tracks.com).

_May, 2013_

“It’s not like you to be married.”

“Hmm?”

“To the idea of a player,” Germán finished, not offended by Diego’s attention being elsewhere. It was that commitment to the idea that found them out here, walking along the Río Manzanares, the rare Sunday afternoon that they were able to take off from their extensive and exhausting coaching schedule. 

Germán had suggested a movie, Diego had accepted.

In the darkened cinema, in their corner of Madrid, as the undulating fields of green spilled across the screen, Diego lowered his head, massaging his temples with his index and forefingers. Germán knew, just like that, that they wouldn’t finish watching this movie. When Diego got like this, either running or walking would be the solution, with his black notebook and stub of pencil in his pocket when ideas or new tactics presented themselves to him. Always tactics, the next game, because football was rarely about the present, but always the future. 

They walked in the shade of the long shadows thrown by the standing trees, which sheltered them from the mid-afternoon sun. 

They passed by parked cars, by mothers pushing their babies in strollers, Germán choosing to amble along, enjoying the sights, while Diego loped ahead of him, only to realise that he’d left Germán behind. Diego would then drop back, circling around him before they fell into step again. 

“You think I’m foolish, like the board.”

“No,” Germán could freely admit, as he patted his pockets for _chicletas_. Coming up trumps, he took out the tiny tin box, and shook it at Diego. “Not foolish.”

“Twisted by sentiment?” 

“Perhaps,” Germán admitted, as he shook some of the chewable candy in Diego’s outstretched hand. “Torres isn’t what he used to be, not even what he was when he left, ah -”

“Liverpool,” Diego crunched out the name between his teeth like he did the candy, his eyes narrowing into slits as he looked off in the distance. Even in the daytime, German noted, Diego was clad in relentless black, from shoes to his light coat, the air brisk around them almost chilled as they continued to walk along the river. “He left Atléti for Liverpool, and then Chelsea. A player of his class doesn’t vanish overnight.”

“It happens. A lapse of form, the touch of the game just vanishes,” Germán rolled his shoulders. “Football is magic as much as philosophy and tactics. Especially nowadays, with the modern footballer and the complication of the game. El Niño was just that, _El Niño_ , a boy when he left, and boys can be broken.”

Diego’s noncommittal _hmm_ the answer to what he thought about that suggestion. Germán didn't mind, such was the strength of their friendship, in that brutal honesty was expected. 

Soon - in the way that walking with a good friend and enjoying the time you’ve spent together quickly approaches the end too soon - they stopped by the door of Diego’s apartment complex. 

“See you tomorrow, eh?” 

“Tomorrow,” Diego said, in that tone of voice that told Germán he was thinking about football again. 

***

Diego turned the key and let himself into his flat, absently flicking the lights on. The windows were open and he briefly looked outside, seeing the curve of the Vicente Calderon. The noises of the evening floated in the air, but not too much. With the off season, they were a more muted hum than roar. He looked at the clock on the wall, and it wasn’t time to call Argentina as yet, because everyone was busy, out and about, attending to their lives in the day.

He knew what Mono thought about himself and Torres. _El Niño_ , a boy when he left, his form dazzling and promising as the future.

Mono had a point, Diego thought, because football could break you as much as it could redeem you, and _El Niño_ had been young, so young.

***

_March, 2005_

“I remember going to school every Monday morning feeling _pissed_ ,” Fernando groused, with that habitual half smile that he did, as he scratched at the label of his bottled beverage with his fingernail. The label, sodden with moisture, gave way under the brisk rub of his thumb. “Because Real Madrid would beat us again, every weekend. It was - ” he cut himself off, rubbing at his chin, his effort at being nonchalant visible to Diego. 

Monday night, and they weren’t playing. Training had finished, and they were at the bar, sitting outside, across from la Ciudad Deportiva. Fernando had invited him along to eat earlier, and Diego couldn’t resist. 

_Earlier on, the rest of the players had gone home, but Fernando had stayed behind at the ground, practicing his shooting until the sky turned to dusk. When it got too dark to continue, and when the groundsmen started looking meaningfully from him towards the door, Fernando flicked the ball in the air with the instep of his boot, and caught it with his hands. He went and showered._

_“Even you have to stop, and rest.”_

_“Diego.” Fernando wrinkled his nose, as he raked his hair with his fingers, the sun bleached-locks snarled from drying in the shower. He yanked his sweater over his head. “You’re still here?”_

_“I could ask the same of you, capitán.”_

_“Oh nooo,” Fernando smiled then, looking like his moniker, with his fair hair, boyish features and freckles. “Do you have to go now, or do you have enough time to eat? I’ll buy you a meal, come with me.”_

***

“I hear the rumours, or not so rumours,” Fernando said, still scratching the label on the bottle of cruzcampo with his fingernail. “About the club and the troubles with the Hacienda.”

“You can’t escape from it,” Diego speared his patatas bravas with his fork. Not food to have everyday, oh, but what food. “The club is in crisis.”

“It’s always been in crisis, well, as long as I’ve known of it. I’m trying to stay and hold on as long as I possibly can,” Fernando looked away, towards the sports centre which glimmered with lights in the distance. “Real Madrid asked after me, I hear.”

 _Real Madrid?_ Diego jerked into sitting up straight in his chair, his body recoiling at the thought of _El Niño_ , Atlético de Madrid’s pride and joy, the one who came up from the _cantera_ and helped blast them back into the top flight slithering towards that team across the city. Fortune couldn't be that cruel... could it?

“Your face!” Fernando laughed, clapping his hand over his mouth to prevent his food from sputtering out. “No, I’ll never go to Real Madrid. I won’t. My grandfather would kill me.”

“But you’ll go away,” Deigo said when the laughing subsided, and Fernando sobered up, a shadow crossing his eyes. He lowered his hand from his mouth and wiped his palm on the napkin, his answer in the resigned set of his shoulders.

“I want things,” Fernando said finally, his voice hard, adult, belying the childish cast of his features. “I want championships, and to go to the Champions League and - I want to win things. I want to do it with Atléti - because we’re not jinxed no matter what people say, and we can be a great club once more. But with Atléti as it is...” Fernando exhaled, the gust of air from his mouth audible in its exasperation. “I’m worth more to the club if I leave. The _socios_ don’t want to say it aloud, but it doesn’t make it any less so.”

The truth of it was right there, the subject dumped on the table in between them, stinking like soiled kits after a match. “I know that you’re leaving, _El Cholo_ , and that’s fine, because you have to leave, because Atlético is ailing, and I wish you all the luck in the world but,” Fernando lowered his gaze to the table between them, his voice now small. “I don’t want to follow you, not now.”

Ah, and this is why they were here. Of course Fernando would have known, but being captain, there weren’t many people he could have turned to. Not with this. 

Diego leaned across the scarred surface of the table, touched Fernando’s knuckles with the tips of his fingers. 

“You can come back, yes? Atléti will always be waiting. If you must go, go.”

“I’ll have to leave Spain.”

“I know. But a player with your talents, you were never going to stay with Atléti, not as it is. A player can only take a club so far, but if you want to soar, you will have to cut ties.”

“Not yet,” Fernando’s mouth flattened into a thin line as he shook his head. “I don’t want to leave just yet.”

_2007, Buenos Aires, Argentina_

“To coach a football team - it’s stupid, Mono. You’d think after Estudiantes, I’d have had enough of it, to enjoy my dotage. Drinking _mate_ and getting a belly, like you.”

Germán looked up from plucking some notes on his electric guitar, his raised eyebrows telling Diego what he thought about _that_. Mono’s deadpan stare did the trick, as Diego laughed at himself and how serious he’d been. Both men were out on the balcony, Germán stripped down to short sleeves and shell bottoms, a glossy black guitar on his lap, the sleek instrument incongruous against his heavy set bulk. Around them, dusk settled in Buenos Aires, the buildings streaked with the roseate glow of the dying sunset.

“You should really come with me,” Diego made a beckoning gesture, pointing to his chest. “Coach with me. We’re of the same brain.”

“I’m on tour, _Cholo_ ,” and that was Germán, utterly unmoved, comfortable with the life he had made for himself right now, touring and releasing live music, but Diego had to _try_.

“We’d be good together, eh? We used to be, when we played together,” he cajoled, as he topped up their glasses of wine. 

“I don’t know,” Germán rubbed his finger along his moustache. “Football -- football can be a cage if you’re not careful. A beautiful cage, but still, a cage. You’re hemmed by diet, and rules. You’re only as good as your last game, burdened by results that aren’t quick enough for the _socios_ or the _hinchas_ and let’s not get into the _forófos_! Your entire history can vanish with two poor matches. Tactics are like sand; forever shifting, waiting for someone to upend everything so we have to start from scratch again. No, I tore down the door of the cage, and refuse to look back.”

“I -” and before Diego could defend his vocation, his mobile phone rang, and raising a hand to Germán in a gesture of pardon and apology, he answered, “ _¿Digame?_. 

“Diego?” 

The voice in his ear familiar and always welcome.“Nando, _El Niño_ \- ” Diego greeted him warmly, although he was well aware of how Fernando would pinken at that name, depending on the tone of voice he used. “How are you?”

“I - just wanted to tell you, before _Marca_ got a hold of the news. I - I’m leaving Atléti.” Fernando’s voice caught on the word, the initial hitch of his voice giving way, as he went on. “It’s twenty million pounds, that’s what my leaving is worth. I - I’m saying yes. It’s what’s best for me - like you said, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The club - even then, I hope that they don’t think I left because I wanted to, but because I _have_ to.”

“Where are you going?” Diego stood up and started to pace on the little postage-stamp sized balcony, before giving up and leaning against the ornate grill for support. 

“Liverpool, an English club,” Fernando said over the crackling of the connection, “They won the European Championship a couple of years ago, and there’s some history. I couldn’t stay in Spain - I - ”

“They will understand,” Diego reassured him, and Germán, with a quizzical look in his direction, put his guitar to one side as he reached for his wine glass on the low lying table in front of him. “But England - ?”

Fernando laughed, “I _know_. I wanted to go to Serie A at least, the weather would have been better; but the money is good in England, or so my agents tell me. I didn’t know when I’ll get the chance to speak to you, since I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“You have great quality, I’m sure I’ll follow you in the papers, because you are a quality player. Just play your own game, yes?”

“I’ll come back to Atléti like you did, one day.”

“I believe you.”

“Good bye, _El Cholo_.”

“ _El capitán_.” 

On a choked laugh of amusement, Fernando hung up, and left Diego with his headset by his ear. 

“Torres has left, then.” Germán picked up his guitar from its stand, and started to strum.

“Yes,” Diego lowered his phone from his ear, and slipped it in his pocket. 

“About two years later than I thought that he would have done. I pegged him to leave Atlético when we did.”

“It’s his first club, it’s very difficult.”

“You should have told him that it will never be as hard as the first. That he’ll become colder and more clinical the next time. That he’ll sit down and weigh up domestic honours, and coaches, and the rest of the team’s quality before he signs on the line. He’s the type to want victory, and once he tastes it, he’s going to want more.”

“You sound as if you know him,” Diego said with a hint of irony. 

“I know good footballers, and he’s one of them,” Germán kept on strumming, and the tune sounded familiar as his voice weaved in and out of the notes. “He’ll be greedy for more, the ones who get the most out of the game usually are.”

“Again, we are similar. You must coach with me.”

“You must fuck off,” Germán retorted, as he picked at the strings of his guitar, no heat in his words, the notes to _The Wind Cries Mary_ reverberating in the warm air around them.

***

_London 2008, en route to Liverpool via train_

“At the end of the day,” Fernando said, laying his cards on the table, to good natured groans from the rest of the team, “you can only belong to one club, no?”

“Wanker,” Carra threw down his hand of cards in disgust. “Bloody Spaniards, first you win the Euros, now cards too. Bloody hell!” 

“Steady,” Steven jostled his shoulder against Carra’s, his manner designed to calm any tempers that might get out of hand. The steady clackety-clack of the train now a soothing background noise. Stevie peered at Carra’s cards, and shook his head. “I don’t think this game is for you, lad. What did you get, Pepe?” 

With a grin Pepe spread his cards, and the entire table moaned at his hand. 

“Tosser!” Steven laughed, because Pepe’s hand was too good to be true. 

“Now,” Pepe tugged at his hoodie, his grin loopy from exhaustion. He’d been put to the test today. “I win, I go to sleep.”

“I’m out!” Carra raised his hands, and pushed himself to his feet. He turned to go, only to bump into Xabi, who had a magazine in hand. 

“You missed the carnage, lad,” Carra shook his head mournfully. “Carnage. I think our bald headed friend is a card shark, there’s a shyster under that grin, mate.”

“Where are you going?” Xabi asked, tilting his head quizzically. With them being on a train on its way to Liverpool, there were not many places for Carra to go. 

“Anywhere from this lot, here.”

Steven shook his head at Carra’s retreating back, his face upturned to Xabi’s as he patted the space on the seat beside him. “Leave him be, you know what Carra’s like, he’s going to annoy Agger and Skertel. Vice captain’s privileges.”

Laughing, Xabi piled into the empty space beside Steven, his eyes narrowing as he recognised the patterns of the game. “ _Mus?_ ” 

“Yeah,” Fernando gathered the cards together from the surface of the table, shuffling them into the pack. 

“Before Carra spat his dummy and chucked his toys out the pram, Nando was giving us a little philosophy class,” Steven said with a laugh, but it wasn’t unkind. 

“Atléti,” Fernando said, dishing out the cards anew, “I know I have been here for a year, and Liverpool is my club now, but before there was Liverpool, there was Atléti and there will always be Atléti - ” he smiled, shuffling the cards together. “There are clubs that you’re grateful to - and I’ll be grateful to Liverpool, and do my best by the club because they might have saved Atléti - but it’s not the same. You know what I mean?”

“I know,” Steven nodded, as he swiped at the cards and frowned at them. “But you didn’t stay.”

“No, I couldn’t. In Spain,” Fernando sighed, “It’s - different. There’s Madrid and Barcelona and that’s it. I couldn’t play for either.”

“Why not?” Xabi asked, his voice a little too neutral. “They are good clubs, with proud histories, and Championships.”

“Because I’m a _Colchonero,_ ” Fernando idly traced the outline of his card. “Because when the team got promoted, there were no celebrations, nothing like when Real Madrid win things, even though they do constantly. We went to Neptuno and cheered by ourselves, because the club couldn’t afford to celebrate.” The memory of the impromptu celebration had stayed with him, as he grabbed at the flag, and he and his teammates danced around the fountain. 

“Football is a business, at the end of it,” Xabi said, playing with the cards in his hand. “Sentiment can only get you so far.”

“Don’t listen to him, lad,” Steven rested his elbows on the table, his eyes on Fernando, and he saw the expression in them, warm and understanding. “Football ... it’s -- different. I remember after the dark days - for a long time, Liverpool and Everton were the only institutions that loved Liverpool the city after the troubles- don’t tell Carra I said anything good about Everton, yeah? I remember when Michael Owen came back from his adventure at Real Madrid - and went to _Manchester United_! He broke a lot of hearts that day.”

“Have you ever wanted to leave?” Fernando asked, and Steven nodded, unselfconscious. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been tempted, I’ve come close a couple of times.”

From the corner of his eye, Fernando saw Xabi jerk his head to look in Steven’s direction, his frown perturbed, his reaction too spontaneous to be practiced, the confession news to him. 

“What made you stay?”

Steven didn’t answer at first, his gaze dropping to the table. When he looked up, his eyes were somber and he said, “Because it’s Liverpool.” 

The answer incomplete, the unsaid remained a secret, but Fernando understood. He understood because it was the same reason that he left Atlético de Madrid.

_December 23rd, 2011_

_“Digame?”_

“El Cholo,” Fernando greeted, pressing his fingers against his eyes. “I heard,” he said, looking out the window, into the manicured lawns of some suburb in London he still had yet to know. “You’re back at Atléti.”

“I am.” That was Diego’s voice in his ear, the same as it had been over the years, confident and brisk. “They offered me the post and - I couldn’t say no.”

“Is it ... what’s it like now?”

“It’s Atléti - or it’s coming back to it. The goal netting is red and white again.” 

Fernando couldn’t stop the smile as he remembered the iconic red and white netting. It had been changed to black, after he’d left, which hadn’t been the same. 

“I want to say congratulations, but Atléti is - is poorly,” Fernando said, wincing at the affectation. He had lived in England for too long. 

“It is,” Diego agreed. “But it has heart, the best supporters, it’s still here. It can be great, it just needs confidence, and a bit of exercise. But I’m not the only one who has moved. According to _Marca_ , you’re at another club now?”

“Chelsea, it has - it has everything I want. Everything I need.”

“Ah,” Diego answered, his voice confident and knowing, “The domestic honours to go with your international ones.”

“It’s everything I need,” Fernando repeated, skirting the question. “I just wanted to tell you congratulations, and to wish you luck. Not that you need it. Atléti is fortunate to have you.”

“Kind words, thank you.”

After mutual goodbyes, they hung up, leaving Fernando to look at the screen of his phone for a long while, the unasked question ringing in his mind. 

_How does it feel, to go home again?_

***

Diego knew he’d be all right when he’d called at Germán’s shortly after he said yes to Atléti. Both of them were seated at the table in his tiny dining room in Madrid, the windows open, facing the enclosed square of the building.

“You’re _loco_ ,” Germán laughed as he sipped from his _bombilla_ , his gourd filled with _mate_. “Atlético asked you to coach and you said yes.”

“Yes,” Diego pressed his finger against his temple, his elbow resting on the table. “I believe in this project.”

“Your family?”

“They’re settled, in Argentina,” Diego breathed. “They have developed lives, and they can’t be here. Not yet. But Mono, I’m on a mission of mercy: I’ve come to save you from guest starring on shows with _cracks_.”

Diego found himself at the end of an askance look, more sceptical than curious, as Germán already knew what was coming. “For me to train with _you_ and your _cracks_.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” Germán frowned for a minute, and with a roll of his eyes, he gave his answer. “Yes.”

“Yes? Are you sure?”

“Yes, because you’ve left your family behind for this project, and that is bravery and suffering. If you’re going to charge at windmills, I’ll go with you.”

“You’ll be my squire,” Diego grinned. 

“Better than being the horse, I’ll leave that to Oscar. You’re using Oscar, right? Those players need conditioning, to realise that nothing can be worse than what they go through in training with us.”

A breath, before Diego realised what Germán had just agreed to. 

With a shout of laughter, he jumped up from his chair, skipped over to Germán, and ruffled the dark, thick shock of Germán’s hair. “You won’t regret it, it will be a new adventure.”

“Everything with you is an adventure, _Cholo_. As long as it’s not the rainbow tour of Europe, but glory and trophies at the end of it. You can do a lot with glory and trophies.”

“I know,” Diego rested his hand on Germán’s shoulder, the synapses in his brain already firing; methods of training and tactics springing to his mind fully fleshed out and formed. “No rainbow tours,” he promised.

 _Champions League, May 2012_

Noise, layers of noise. 

Champions League nights now at the Vicente Calderón. The _hinchas_ received the accolade with the full throated support like everything else that came their way. The anthem boomed over the speakers, the lyrics in languages that Diego didn’t understand, but their _spirit_ filtered through anyway, heralding the match to come as something specific; a future to be written in the history books. The hymn a coronation to the future Champions of Europe. As the lyrics crested to their conclusion on the notes of the harpsichord and the choir, their voices winding around each other to the heavens above; Diego allowed himself to observe it, the banners and the colours of the _rojiblancos_ waved by the faithful in time to the music. Those supporters who wandered in the football wilderness for years- known and dismissed as _El Pupas_ \- the word in their eyes was as hateful as a slur. 

They banished the monster of their jinx with screams and anthems of joy, their shouts and laughter as loud and boisterous as fireworks, as they turned away decades of sorrow. 

Now, and here, in the Champions League, Diego forced himself to enjoy this moment, to hold it in his mind; because football raced towards the present and the future, only leaving memories in its wake, and as the league anthem receded, emotion rushed into its place. A hushed wonder that weighed on the heart, of palpable _faith_ that brought them to this minute. He slipped his hands in the pocket of his quilted coat, waving to the crowd who chanted _Atléti, Atléti-_ and let the feeling go, focusing on the here and now. 

Diego took Jose Mourinho’s return to Europe with equanimity, because Mourinho swept in from England with his team clad in blue. Their crest said so much about the club, and about what they thought of themselves; a lion with the staff of kings, its mouth open, its stance regal, devouring wins. 

“I should have torn his head off when I had the chance, we wouldn’t be facing him now.” Germán mumbled beside him, and Diego allowed himself a smile before they turned their attention to the shifting men on the field. Chelsea were playing deep, their defence impregnable, a steel wall. 

For all of Mourinho’s bluster off the pitch, with his swagger, his blinding smile and exaggerated pout, you’d think that his teams were swashbucklers on the field like Ancelotti’s Real Madrid, but no. His style now even _more_ defensive, the kind where you’d have to send the likes of a locksmith to do the job, with delicate touches and a good ear, not footballers. 

Diego respected that, for Mourinho’s methods had to be respected- his honours demanded as such - before he set forth to destroy them. 

***

A good coach, Diego and Germán agreed, still played the game, even if he stood on the sidelines. 

No, he wasn’t Turan, with his ball control or muscling others off the ball, but he could see where he’d go, what he’d do. Football a study in decoding multiverses: for every player who did his job, executed a pass _right_ , without it being intercepted, the movement a sweet study of completion, there were four ways to glory. For those who failed, there were seven different ways of crashing out. Chelsea’s form as sealed as a shell, and then - Falcao - with his first touch and positioning, broke away from a defender and fired the ball at the goal. The roar of the crowd willed the ball to go in go _in_ \- only for it to rattle the crossbeam. The collective groan melodramatic, the mood still light, the supporters anticipatory - _hungry_ as they cheered on for victory.

Diego’s eye snagged on a familiar figure on the touchline from the corner of his eye, before he turned to his left, seeing _El Niño’s_ head cocked to the side as Mourinho spoke to him, his hands sketching out his own interpretation of the future. For the first time since the game started, Diego didn’t smile. 

“Cagey bastards,” Germán folded his arms, because the score sheet wasn’t enough, never enough. You played to the whistle, football replete with cautionary tales of the histories of teams who surged back when you gave them room to turn, their form unpredictable and dangerous as a wounded animal. Mourinho stood on the sidelines, gesturing with the formality of an angry wizard. Diego paid him no mind as he too made signs and directions to his players which they followed. The patterns of the ball were now nothing but a blur, as it bounced from foot to foot, jostled around by tackles, lopes, and runs. 

Fernando was out there, and moving. 

Diego’s eyes tracked his direction, because he too had heard of Fernando’s faltering form. _Marca_ reported what the English press said with malicious glee; the unspoken jibe of _Torres would have been better in La Liga, been better at Real Madrid, but he went to Liverpool and now Chelsea, and look at him, hobbled and wounded._

Mourinho swore a stream of invectives in Italian and Portuguese, and with the drama that never left him, recalled Fernando off the field. 

Raised eyebrows, as Fernando pointed to himself - _Me?_ \- but he loped off the field with no histrionics, just an appreciative wave at the crowd, and with a half smile. 

The Calderón shouted his name, and clapped just as Diego did as he came to the sideline to where Diego stood. 

“Diego,” Fernando’s smile widened, as he slowed down to greet him, face glowing under the lights. Despite the years that had passed since he left Atlético de Madrid, he hadn’t changed much. The constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks, hair lightened at the tips of their strands, his frame lean and strong. “ _El Cholo_ , look at this, what you’ve done,” Fernando waved his hand, taking in the crowd, the sea of red and white with a few blue dots of Chelsea blue bobbing up and down in its red and white wave. “ _El Pupas_ no more.”

“And look at you,” Diego held out his hand to shake it, only for Fernando to grab him by his forearm, the move instinctive, the intention warm. “The rumours of your demise, greatly exaggerated, no?”

Fernando’s smile faltered, his eyes shadowed by an emotion Diego knew well, before his smile brightened again, _El Niño_ now. “I’m glad Atléti is doing well.”

 _“Through difficulties to honours,”_ Diego said, squeezing Fernando’s forearm, feeling the tremor of emotion through it, his adrenaline levels approaching normal, now that he had come off the pitch. 

“Always,” Fernando looked away, his eyes scanning the crowd, taking everything in, and for a moment, Fernando might have been his _capitán_ again, even though he had been barely twenty then, when everything was Atlético de Madrid, the responsibilities of the team weighing on his head. “You’ve given Atlético so many honours already, I thank you for that, _El Cholo_ ,” Fernando said, his smile now warmer, filled with gratitude. “I hope you bring her more.”

Diego let his hand drop and stepped away from Fernando, watching him as he stood at the mouth of the tunnel for a few seconds, taking in everything. He turned to go, his face flushing, as if he just realised that he’d been watched by Diego all this time. 

Long after the game had finished, after the crowd in the Calderón finished chanting, holding up their pennants and cheering, after he had congratulated every player personally for their performance that night, Fernando’s expression stayed in his mind. 

_Ciudad Deportiva de Majadahonda: 2013_

“I want Fernando Torres.”

“I want the Hacienda to get off our backs, I’d like to get all the transfer monies from the players that we sell. I want FIFA to leave third party ownership alone, we all want things we can’t have,” Enrique Cerezo glared at Diego over the silver frames of his glasses. “Torres is too expensive, and you know Chelsea.”

Oh, yes, Diego nodded, allowing Enrique to get his woes off his chest, and to acknowledge the tension of the ‘special relationship’ they shared with Chelsea FC, of Stamford Bridge, England. Another reason to take delight in their wins when they could get them. 

“I understand.”

“He’s also not the same Torres that left us to go to -- ”

“Liverpool.” Diego filled in the name of the club automatically, as they walked along the side of the training ground, watching the players through the fence winding down their training with Oscar and Germán in the background, now too tired to shout. 

“Liverpool,” Enrique shot him a stare over the silver frames of his glasses, letting Diego know how little Fernando’s efforts post Atlético Madrid mattered, because football was never about the past or looking back. 

“I understand that Chelsea is ... difficult,” Diego walked on, as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I understand that you think that Fernando is out of form - ”

“I _think_? Each goal that he’s scored has cost Chelsea in the millions.”

“Mourinho isn’t using him.”

Enrique snorted, his scorn apparent. “That’s Mourinho, and Chelsea. That is what they do.”

“I know,” Diego agreed. “I am being difficult, and I am going to be, but I want Torres.”

“Why do you want Torres?” 

“Because ...we played well together.”

“Diego,” Enrique stopped, and Diego knew the answer as sure as he knew the sun above them was yellow, and the skies blue. “No. As you say yourself, football is the future. Torres isn’t, sorry.”

> **May 2014: Bleacher Report: Rumour: Diego Simeone, the coach of Atlético de Madrid, is looking to do a Guardiola and take a sabbatical overseas for a year. He’s rumoured to be studying English, so will he be eyeing a move to the Premiere League? Of course, Simeone wouldn’t be alone in his quest, since there is precedent of South American coaches to the Premier League from La Liga with some degrees of success, such as Manuel Pellegrini and Mauricio Pochettino at Manchester City and Southampton respectively. Altético Madrid is understandably nervous, because they don’t want _El Cholo_ to leave, but Diego Simeone’s passion is matched by his ambition. Will _Cholo_ leave the _rojiblancos_?**

“English!” Germán huffed, telling Diego what he thought about _that_. “I followed you into coaching,” Germán said, wagging the business end of his ballpoint pen in Diego’s direction. “Sometimes, when I am not too tired to think, I remember that I hate you.”

Diego rested his head against the bulk of Germán’s shoulder as they sat on one of the low benches in the mini bleachers of the _Ciudad Deportiva_. They watched the second team in training, being put through their paces by Oscar, who had been especially invited by the second team’s coaching staff to be there. Diego and Germán were seated higher up, noticing everyone, notepads and lists in hand, as they observed the players being put through their paces in warm ups. 

“May you always be too tired to think, then, Mono.”

“English, eh?”

“It’s a good language to learn, Fernando speaks it well, even Pochettino - and we see his grand adventure in England, no?”

“Well, if you took your year, I could tour again.”

“ _Mono_ ,” Diego drawled his friend’s name. “I’d want you to come with me. We could go back to Argentina, see our families, for a while.”

“Until other windmills in the distance caught your eye,” Germán grumbled, as he stared out at the players as they broke into their drills, and Diego felt the shift of Germán’s body as he moved and scribbled notes on his pad. Normally, they would watch the movements on ipads and screens in the training rooms, but at times it was good to be present in the stands, it made the second team work harder to impress. In addition, as much as statistics were useful, nothing beat the eye and gut instinct in terms of measuring players and their desire to suffer for the club. “English is a windmill.”

“My contract is winding down.”

“They want you to stay.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Perhaps. But it's good to go away... and recharge.”

“You are a poor liar, _Cholo_.”

“If Atléti grows from a point of stability, there’s no reason why I should go, but they have to grow. You saw what happened to Mauricio Pochettino at Espanyol; when they started selling players faster than he could train them. He had to leave, for he had no team, had no stability.”

“Atlético isn’t Espanyol - ”

“It _could_ be,” Diego interrupted, his voice testy, as he drew away from Mono, sitting up ramrod straight in the bleachers, the subject sparking in his gut, and he turned the fire inward, his mood bullish. “We get players in, build them up, they get sold on. You can’t build an empire if the foundations keep shifting. If we can’t keep our best players, or don’t even have the balls to go after them even if we want them to come back, how can we show that we’re finally here?”

“You are obsessed.”

“ _Hostia_ , Mono,” Diego said without heat, “if Torres comes back, the press will forget about me and I can coach in peace.”

“Your reasons are getting better,” Gemán’s body shook with the rumble of his laugh. “The board might buy that one.”

“What’s the point of wanting to be a great club with grand gestures if we don’t show it? If we don’t suffer for it?”

“There’s your answer.”

“What?” 

“You’re the coach, _Cholo_.” Germán said, before yanking his shades from his shirt pocket and slipping them on his face. “You know what you have to do.”

_Vincente Calderon January 04th, 2015_

He’d never get used to it, Diego thought. Never get used to the trumpeting of the Calderon, of the throng of supporters and their emotions flooding the air strong and true. He never wanted to get used to it, never wanted to lose the thrill of it, especially on a day like today.

Sunday, a day for church and promenades and family. For forty five thousand supporters strong, clad in their shirts of red and white, their red and white pennants of the bear clawing the strawberry tree fluttering in the brisk wind, today _was_ a day for church and promenades and family, as they turned out for one of their own. 

The day bright and cold, the sun’s light washing across the supporters and the field as if a benediction. Fernando Torres stepped out of the tunnel, loped on the pitch to a blast of cheers, clad in the colours of red and blue. The colours the same- the style of the kit different- closer cut, a different sponsor. Now a man, with his children tottering along, his daughter holding his hand, their eyes huge and eager, as they took in the world around them. 

Older, and hesitant, as if unsure of his welcome, Fernando walked across the field and waved, the crowd sang and waved back. 

Diego and Germán stood on the sidelines and clapped with everyone else, because coaches belonged with the team, and the team belonged in front of the supporters, because without support, you were nothing. 

“Sentiment,” Germán said, as they watched the presentation unfurl before them. Fernando stood in the centre of the field, microphone in hand. “The press are having a field day, you know.”

“I know what they see. But I see --- a statement.”

Germán slid a look in Diego’s direction, his eyes narrow slits, _Stop the bullshit_. Laughing, Diego threw an arm across the hulk of Germán’s shoulders, and with a soft grunt and shake of his head, Germán patted at Diego’s hand. No, it wasn’t the romance of it even a statement that made him bring _El Niño_ home, nor the fact that the press would crowd Fernando like sharks around chum - leaving Diego alone - although that was a benefit. 

It was more than that. Despite what people thought, it wasn’t sentiment that made Diego bring Fernando home. 

_2005: Vicente Calderon_

_Real Madrid had won, again. It was one thing for them to win at the Bernabeu, another thing for them to come to the Calderón and do the same thing. It felt like a violation, like someone ransacking your house and stealing three points at the end of it every time you met._

_“The bastards,” Fernando spat. “They are a stone in my shoe, Cholo, and one day, I’ll exercise my right to empty it out.”_

_”You should be getting on home,” Diego said, noting the rigid set of Fernando’s shoulders, the stern lines in his face, because Fernando had so much pride, even then._

_“I will,” Fernando rubbed at his nose, his shell jacket rustling with his movement. “I just - ” his eyes scanned the now empty stands, the stadium thrown into shadow, him doing a slow circle as he took in the stadium, the field. “I just wish -” Fernando stared at the sky, dark and inky even for Madrid, the city of lights._

_“I just wish I could do more. You’re right you know.”_

_“Hmmm?”_

_“I’ll have to leave Atlético Madrid, because us coming back into La Liga isn’t enough, the games we play aren’t enough. Even the money that my transfer might get - won’t be enough. I can be a crack - ” and no, that was no idle boast, “but not with a great team. At times, you can’t be both, you can’t have both,” he knuckled a tear away. “I tell myself that it’s fine. That I can stay a year more to see if I can help turn things around but...” his voice trailed off into a muffled sob._

_Diego closed the gap between them and wrapped an arm around Fernando’s shoulders, drawing him in. Feeling the heat of embarrassment as it pumped off Fernando’s body, and oh, the football gods could be cruel, gifting Fernando with many things, and cursing him with a keen sensitivity that had the danger to undo him in the end._

_“A promise,” Diego said, his voice crisp, because warm sympathy wasn’t what Fernando needed, not now. “We’ll go on our grand adventures and come back to Atlético de Madrid, as a crack and a coach.”_

_Fernando laughed then, his voice thickened with unshed tears. “You a coach, Diego?” He nodded to himself, as if struck by a sudden thought. “You would be, you’re more the captain than me anyways.”_

_“Our words are our bonds. If you say it, you have to honour it.”_

_Diego found himself on the receiving end of a skeptical look from Fernando, the vertical line in between his eyebrows, too young for frown lines then. “Humour an old man,” Diego squeezed Fernando’s shoulders, feeling the tension in Fernando’s body ebb as he laughed again._

_“Fine, Diego,” Fernando rolled his eyes, his mouth in a parody of a smile. “I’ll work on being the crack and you the coach, and I’ll come back, I will. But only,” he stopped, dropping his gaze, the flush tinting his cheeks and freckles. When his gaze met Diego’s, his eyes were hard and glassy with unshed tears. “Only if you think I’m good enough. If I’m not, don’t come for me at all.”_

_Diego nodded, because the terms were fair. “I won’t.”_

_“I’ll come then,” Fernando nodded, his features solemn with his promise. “If you want me.”_

Fin.

* * *

Background and some bits of gossip with this fic.

  * The Hacienda - is the Spanish tax man, much like the American IRS , and Atlético Madrid is in hock to them due to reasons. Overall the club is €500 million in debt (it used to be €600 million in debt, but they're digging themselves out of that hole), what with funding , a new stadia, dodgy financial mismanagement with past presidents and the rest of it.
  * Atlético Madrid has a lot of players via third party contracts (but FIFA wants to outlaw them come 2016). On top of that Atlético Madrid doesn’t earn a lot from their transfers, from what I’ve gathered, the tax man gets half of whatever the transfer fee Atlético gets for their players, and the third party contracts makes things hinky.
  * They get a LOT of players on loan, and Simone tends to train the players, make them great and they get moved on (either sold/recalled from loan), so it's difficult for him to build a team (see: Falcao, Courtois and Costa among others), which makes it a minor miracle for Diego Simeone to consistently do what he’s done. For instance, there are only two team members from their original 2010/11 set up. Their dealings with Chelsea are considered 'difficult'
  * _El Pupa_ is Spanish for jinx, iirc and Atlético’s supporters were known by that name for a while - until Simeone came back. The first thing he did was change the nettings of the goals from black to red and white. He _insisted_.
  * Simeone was only supposed to stay until 2015, iirc? He was rumoured to be wanting to do a Pep Guardiola and go on sabbatical for a year to learn English, with the intention of seeing where he wanted to go next. However, he wanted Fernando Torres so badly, according to Sid Lowe, he offered Atlético Madrid an extra year (ditching the idea of his sabbatical) if they got him Torres. The president said that Simeone doesn't ask for much, so when he made the request, the board got it done, even though Chelsea is 'complicated'. Simeone has said that he'd stay if Atlético showed 'growth' and ambition. They've gotten investment from a Chinese billionaire, so they might be able to keep players. There's rumours that Atlético Madrid are offering him enough money - for him to be the highest paid person in the setup (including football talent) and to ward off interest from PSG (who tried to poach him). His sister/agent Natalia, has hinted that he's open to signing an extension with Atletico Madrid (cry Manchester City, cry moar). When Simeone accepted the job in Spain, he left his family behind in Argentina and face times them everyday
  * Mauricio Pochettino's situation at Espanyol is well known. Another former Argentine player turned coach (he plied his trade at Espanol), he took the team from relegation to a respectable midtable place, but the club was in financial trouble (a tragic, recurring theme for Spanish clubs), and they kept selling players as soon as he trained them. After a while he chucked it in at Espanyol, but the consensus was that it wasn't his fault, but the club and himself decided to part by mutual agreement. While Jose Mourinho was in La Liga with his stint as Real Madrid manager, he and Pochettino got to know each other, and subsequently started the great love in that's followed them to the PL. Mourinho encouraged Pochettino to come to the EPL (because of the relatively equal standing of funds that the top 20 clubs get, versus the duopoly of Barcelona and Real Madrid. Mourinho supposedly gave Southampton a call and recommended him to the club, smoothing Pochettino's way into Southampton. He's at Spurs now, because Pochettino is as loco as his mentor, NGL. 
  * Fernando Torres fired his club from Segunda (2nd league, rather like the English Championship side) to La Liga with a lot of goals. According to my reading, the club was so skint, they couldn't celebrate the promotion, so himself and some lads went down to Neputino fountain in Madrid and celebrated, you can find the pictures online, as he's waving the Atlético de Madrid's pennant
  * Torres wanted to stay with Atlético de Madrid, but he really couldn't because they were floundering, and he'd have been worth more to the club if he left, so he got sold to Liverpool in 2007 for a record signing of £20 million. Atlético's plight was such that fans actually came up to Torres and said, "We love you, but you have to go", so he left for the sake of his career and his club's fortunes
  * Torres left Liverpool under a cloud. LFC were in financial trouble, and Torres wanted trophies, so he left LFC for Chelsea in the January 2011 transfer window for a fee of £50 million. Considering the heated rivalry Chelsea and Liverpool had under Benitez and Mourinho's helming back in 2005-2009/10, this went down well as you can expect
  * Depending on what you believe, people say LFC rushed the Torres transfer through to get the money, even though Torres was battling injury. Either way, he wasn't as prolific at Chelsea, and Mourinho didn't think Torres offered much to the side. Torres has said that Chelsea was a success for _him_ because he got Champions League (yet to get a domestic league title). Chelsea fans, understandably, feel differently. His goal output at Chelsea was minimal, to be kind
  * After withering on Chelsea's bench for two years, Torres then went to AC Milan in August 2014 and didn't impress there, so AC Milan were flogging him for a loan (to offload his wages) come December 2014 because he only got a goal in something like six months at the club? Sorry, under caffinated. When Simeone asked Atlético to go for Torres, people blasted his decision as sentiment, and thought that he had lost the plot. When Torres arrived at the Calderón in January, about 45,000 fans turned out for his presentation - on a cold Sunday. Mad. A video of the day is [here](http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/football/news/atletico-madrid-mark-fernando-torres-4922258)
  * The Champions League anthem is played before each match in the competition, its lyrics are in English, French and German, the official languages of UEFA. NO Spanish! More on the theme : [here](http://www.wikiwand.com/en/UEFA_Champions_League_Anthem)
  * Germán Burgos did (does?) have a hard rock band called [The Garb](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5QU96KHhrY)
  * Germán Burgos was touring, for a while, then settled down, did a football pop idol show called _Cracks_ (what the Spanish call a great footballer- Ronaldo would be a crack), but Simeone was after him to coach for _years_ , he eventually got Burgos on side. They went to Inter, saved them from relegation in 2010/11, then Atlético came calling and Simeone said yes. Burgos is considered Simeone's right hand man: he's the one who bloods in the new teammates, gets them settled, and when Simeone got an EIGHT MATCH BAN from the sidelines, Burgos lead the team, but he is noted to be cold and analytical when on the sidelines (except with Mourinho, but eh, Mou gotta troll - and that referee - oy). Mono left Atlético Madrid in 2004, Simeone in 2005. Oscar (mentioned in passing in this fic) is the guy responsible for Atletico de Madrid's physical conditioning, which is impressive given the minimal downtime the players have due to injuries. He's known as 'The Prof' iirc and Simeone trusts him enough to take the guys through the paces and he rocks up about twenty minutes in. 
  * If you've made it this far- whoa, thanks for reading 




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